


Nyctophilia

by illunaria



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood Kink, Blood and Torture, Dark, Dark Fantasy, Drabble Sequence, F/M, Magic, Original Character(s), Sorcerers, Swords & Sorcery, a series of October drabbles that began to flow into one story, now three years later I unearthed and edited them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:20:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26606638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illunaria/pseuds/illunaria
Summary: (n.) love of darkness or night. finding relaxation or comfort in the darkness.Her hands are bloodstained, her will is close to broken.Her cage is her lover.
Relationships: Klara/Cecil, Klara/Viscardi
Kudos: 3





	Nyctophilia

**i.**

It had taken effect faster than expected. 

Hollow eyes watched the man across the round table, attention trained on loose fingers splayed around the amber bottle of booze. A pleased smile curled on his mouth as it tipped over, staining the playing cards discarded earlier on polished mahogany. The other man managed to force a burble of confusion from his numbing throat before he tumbled out of his chair, the sensation swiftly coursing through his veins. 

“Oh, dear,” the man still seated cooed, fire from the nearby hearth reflected in his dark eyes. “Whatever is the matter, Terrence?” 

Save for the sputtering as Terrence attempted in vain to breathe, there was no answer. His eyes rolled and fell upon who he once thought of as friend, someone he laughed with over nights very much like this one. And during his last moments, just before his pupils dilated and eyes cleared, before the aconite leached him of life, he wondered _why_. 

_Why didn’t I kill him first?_

**ii.**

He had spent a century weaving his web, another three lying in wait for someone to foolishly ensnare themselves. Many in his younger years had merely passed him off as a recluse, one of the many hermits that chose to hoard magic to grant themselves long lives, who allowed mortals to build legends around their lonely mountains and decrepit huts.

This sorcerer desired more.

And just when he had begun to tire of waiting, a fly fell into his trap, knocked thrice on his door and awakened the sleeping spider. 

The mortal wanted power, but a fly could only harbor so much of it, especially when greed encompassed the lesser creature. 

_Greed never made a fine meal._

So the sorcerer smiled with charm that had captured the hearts of royalty, and allowed the fly to become further confined in sticky thread disguised as the richest of silks, the purity of maidens, and savory liqueur. The mortal thought himself a king among men.

Yet he kept a devil among insects as company. 

**iii.**

His laughter had a way of bringing her heart to her throat. 

Always she had felt sick around him, the nerves shooting through her veins and pricking at her skin mercilessly. The way his shoulders bounced with rich mirth, the way his eyes shone like the sun on a summer’s day, the way his fingers skimmed over her wrist made it difficult to breathe.

His hair was a cascade of silver, dyed or magicked to the roots, though he had always insisted it was natural. He had been hers, the light in her darkest moments, the man who got down on one knee and wished her his.

Happiness was enough to blind her. 

For when War came cloaked in stars, swathed in the night sky, his eyes dark save for the moon waning within its depths, she had hope. There was no prophecy that foretold his coming, no wise mage that recalled his existence, no peal of bells to warn the people, mortals and sorcerers alike. Yet she still believed in her sun.

_Veni, vidi, vici._

The wedding had been postponed, and she watched him take up his staff and swear to protect her, to aid all efforts to slay the beast, to be victorious. Still, her lover laughed and gathered an army while the dark sorcerer erected a throne of darkest onyx from the earth. He knew its soil, fed it visions of moonlight and high tides, then caressed her face and made her his. 

And the sun remained oblivious as the moon stole the heart of its most cherished earth. 

Ambition was enough to blind him.

_Betrayal always made a fine meal._

So the dagger came away, and she stared down with clearing eyes at the bloodied blade, tears making streaks down her face twisted in terror.

In that moment, she realized he would never laugh again.

**iv.**

The mud was slick beneath her bare feet, the wind sharp against her cheeks as it whistled between the leaves. Despite the countless canopies of greenery, rain pelted overhead, each drop a blow to her skin.

She could still feel Cecil’s blood on her hands. 

The rain mixed with unceasing tears, but still she drove onward, not daring to stop and make shelter beneath gnarling roots of towering trees. 

_Murderer._

The word rung within, pounding against her skull while her legs carried her through the growing night, over freshly fallen leaves and frosted blades of grass. She dared not look back, both in fear of those who may know of the dagger she buried in her lover’s heart, and in fear that she would bring harm to them as well.

And when she tumbled and fell, she remained still as a corpse, wishing for death.

And when she heard approaching footsteps, she prayed it would be painful. 

And when he crouched down beside her, wearing an easy smile, heartache took hold of her throat and squeezed. Her dreams had not done him justice, were unable to paint his midnight hair, his haunted eyes, every sharp angle of his face that encompassed the devil inside. 

Long fingers stroked her muddied cheek as he spoke, voice dripping honey. 

“All mine. Just as I promised you would be.”

**v.**

She looked so pretty in lace, encased in filigree bars wrought from silver, on display for all who entered his domain. She served as a reminder, a warning to those still supporting the dwindling resistance that had taken years to create and mere moments to crumble. 

The foundation had been flimsy, at best. 

Now the wicked sorcerer lounged across his throne, attempting to cure the quiet that thrummed along his bones with the blade in his hand. Cutting open fingers one digit at a time, he watched blood seep from the wounds before the skin stitched together with sibilant incantations serving as needle and thread. The pain did little for his boredom, until finally he tossed aside the dagger and let his head loll back, allowing his eyes to train on the pet that was slumped as far away from him as the cage allowed. 

“Sing for me.” 

He missed her sharp eyes, now dulled in defeat. He missed her radiant skin, now sallow in sorrow. He missed her lofty voice, now mute in misery. Oh, she still spoke in whimpers and the loveliest gasps that fell from her lips when he let her loose from the silver bars only to encase her in his iron grip at night. 

For now, her head turned away, obscuring his view of her face.

But a smile played on his lips, for he saw how her body stiffened, her fingers twitched, and her chest rise and fall faster with the beating of her heart. How her eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly in defiance. 

Her will was yet to be shattered.

**vi.**

She used to be so lively. 

Before he’d thoroughly corrupted, cornered, and caged her. 

Each candid shot was the epitome of life, capturing elation in her green eyes, framing toothy smiles and a carefree posture. He’d known that version within her dreams of picturesque countrysides and soaring skylines, where she had shared those smiles she gave so freely to her dead lover with _him_. The devil that plotted their demise. 

She was a ghost of her past self.

Her once golden hair was now pale with grief, her eyes having lost their jubilant shine. 

When she had first slammed her fists against his cloaked chest and spat in his face, so tight with restrained anger, he had seen no other option but to clip her wings and cage the sorceress. And she did look so pretty within the silver casing. 

Letting the photographs fall to the foot of the dais, he slunk quietly to her cage and trailed one gloved finger down the clasp of the door. “If you won’t sing for me now, perhaps we should retire to our quarters.” 

Her head snapped to the side, finally deigning to meet his heated gaze. “I am no songbird, Viscardi. And I refuse to be your whore.” 

“You play the martyr well, but why do you beg so nicely if that were true?”

Her flamed cheeks shook aside the clinging ghost, and as a feline smile curled on his mouth, he realized the girl in the photographs was long dead. 

**vii.**

Viscardi never slept. 

Each time he eased out of her trembling body, he never once rolled over and succumbed to the sleep that weighed down her own eyes. Instead, he stood and shrugged on one of the many silk robes he carried in his infinite wardrobe, and moved to the desk a few feet away, like ink spilling across a smooth surface. He would read, write, pour over scrolls and curse under his breath while she drifted off despite her better judgement. 

She wanted to find weakness within him. 

She vowed she would.

But how could a man, immortal or not, refuse sleep?

“My curious girl, why would I have such a need after slumbering for three hundred years?” he said lightly one night after she voiced her question in a wary, shaking voice. 

She’d known he was old, not that he was _ancient_ . The knowledge perturbed her, shook her very core, and she wondered why he’d chosen _her_. During daylight, she raked her mind, seeking the answer to the one question she could not gather courage to ask. 

For she was terrified of the answer. 

She dared not trespass on the lethal thoughts that plagued his clouded mind, much like he had invaded her dreams for years, filling her head with want and need and _desperation_. He’d skewed her idea of love, bewitching her into driving a blade into Cecil’s heart, but he hadn’t needed her in order to snuff out the rebellion. 

She did not open her mouth, did not voice her wonder, refused to give him the satisfaction. 

But one night, after he’d had his fill of pleasure, he did not turn to his desk. His lips brushed against her ear and prompted her to sleep, then he was gone, slipping out the door with only a flame to light the way. 

Never had he left her without a cage to brood in, whether it be the birdcage or his bed, and now the opportune moment had arrived. Though it may be a test of obedience, it was one she was willing to fail if it gave her the chance to find the answers she searched for. 

**viii.**

He’d bound her magic with vigor and vice. 

Unable to summon a light of her own, she slipped on the remnants of the dress he’d shred into near ribbons hours ago and took hold of the lit candlestick that sat at his desk. She couldn't decipher the many scrolls littering the shelves, his swooping handwriting creating ancient runes that she'd neglected to study during her school years. 

She had always favored charms and defensive spells, yet nothing had been able to save her from war, or herself becoming a spoil of it. 

Keeping a protective hand before the weak tongue of fire, she made certain her feet were a whisper against the cool surface of the floor as she walked out into the darkened corridor. His quarters were at the end of the hall, so she continued along the path that she knew well enough after traversing back and forth between the bed sheets and the great hall that housed his looming throne. 

She checked every door along the way, frowning deeply when each refused to budge, their locks in place. After creeping down the flight of sweeping stairs, instead of taking the right that led to the side entrance of the throne room, convenient to the palace’s only inhabitants, she veered left. 

The feeble flame cast flickering shadows in every direction, but when none took hold of her exposed ankles, she found she could breath easy.

He preferred the company of darkness over the living.

Continuing down the hall, she passed tapestries difficult to discern with only a single flame to light their entirety. Yet she could make out the writhing, hedonistic rituals that she had no doubt Viscardi would love to have her partake in. Swallowing bile that threatened to creep up her throat, she shook her head of the thought and came to a stop in front of an open doorway.

A chill kissed her skin as she stared down the stone stairwell. If she were feeling sane tonight, she’d turn and scurry back underneath the coverlet of Viscardi’s bed, but foolish bravery hummed through her blood, urging her to investigate. To find a weakness she could exploit. 

Taking in a breath, she clasped a hand around the railing and began her descent. The air grew colder and thicker as she grew restless and fearful. It was entirely plausible that this was where he had disappeared to, not to the library or out on a midnight stroll across the bloodstained lands he’d claimed his own. 

She shuddered and glanced once over her shoulder to reassure herself he wasn’t a heartbeat away. 

As soon as the stairwell came to an end, stones slick with moist beneath her feet, the flame extinguished and she hurried to brace herself against the nearest wall. The courage that had carried her down fled, leaving her with the urge to either run back or hide. Viscardi may not outright kill her, but he had many methods of punishment. 

Gritting her teeth in a final attempt to grasp onto any remaining threads of nerve, she squinted her eyes to take in her blackened surroundings. 

And let the threads slip from her fingers. 

**ix.**

Unadulterated terror settled in the pit of her stomach. 

Her adjusting eyes lingered on the whips and floggers hanging from glinting hooks, on the blades of various lengths meticulously laid along the tables against the walls, their bejeweled handles winking within darkness. The torches protruding from the walls remained still, likely only to light with magic.

With a sharp pang, she realized that the underside of her feet were wet with blood, not with inherent dampness of the underground. The sharp tang of copper claiming her senses was enough validation.

Viscardi would never let the elements tarnish anything within his palace.

The scent made her dizzy with countless questions, but she managed to force herself away from the wall to stare at the single iron door at the far end of the chamber. She tread across slick floor carefully as her hand stretched out, groping for a handle. Upon finding none, she clenched her hands into fists and cursed under her breath. 

Something shifted on the other side. It was a harrowing whisper of steel sliding against stone, followed by immediate silence. She held her breath while pressing her ear against the door to better listen, straining for any sound at all, wondering if it was all imagination, if the shadows had released their hold on her heart only to play with the senses. 

“Of all places to wander off to, you find yourself here.”

A shrill cry flew from her lips of its own accord. Her heart beat against her ribs like a furious drum threatening to tear down the center at any moment. 

“Apologies if I’ve frightened you, pet.” 

His voice was light, airy, full of mischief. But when she turned her head to meet his gaze, ice shot into her veins. Viscardi stood directly behind her, a single foot of space between their bodies, and he was _seething_. His shoulders were taut, his jaw tight with vexation. The crescents in his black eyes were a blazing red, every star that ordinarily twinkled within them snuffed out. 

They flickered over to the instruments lining the suffocating walls. 

And then he smiled.

**x.**

Searing pain rippled over her back, splitting open skin in scarlet ribbons. 

With each lash, she counted through tears, through boundless agony. Each number that escaped brought her closer to shattering, to pressing her will into his open palm. 

At twenty, the whip hissed and fell at her tormentor’s leather-clad feet while her hands clenched at the shackles keeping her suspended in the air. Viscardi had jerked her through the iron door not ten minutes ago, unlocking by way of magic. She thought she would encounter another prisoner, another person held against their wishes in the lonely palace, someone to call an ally.

And yet the cell on the other side remained empty. 

He strung her up and pressed sweet nothings against her ear, all the while peeling away what little remained of her dress. Then he trailed kisses along her spine, worshipping every inch before flaying it. 

Blood ran down her back in streams like the tears on her face, and when another whisper of fabric fell into a pool between them, she plead in a hoarse voice, “Please don’t do this…” 

His arm wrapped around her middle, snaking up to clutch her jaw as he pulled her flush against him, allowing her to feel his arousal. 

“I have granted you so much kindness,” his traditionally calm voice shifted into a guttural groan, the growl of a beast thrumming in his throat. With one hand splayed across the middle of her back, smearing blood and jolting her with throbbing anguish, he used the other to stimulate her quivering flesh. “I have offered you _everything_. And you repay me with disobedience.” 

His chest folded over her wounds, painting him red.

“You need only submit and be loved in turn.” 

And though he lay claim to her body, still she refused him the heart within. 

**xi.**

Incantations brushed against open wounds, knitting flesh as his hands ghosted over the inert sorceress. She’d fallen unconscious soon after he had forced himself into her heat, relishing the feeling of thawing into rivulets of icy sweat. 

She brought out a weakness within, a desire to taste life and let it bleed over his ravenous mouth. 

Wrapping the pale gold of her hair around his hand, Viscardi bent down and pressed a gentle kiss against the back of her neck once the last spell fell from him. Dark circles lined his eyes, exhaustion blanketing over his shoulders in layers upon layers. 

He had expected her to wander out of their quarters with foolish ideals bustling around her beguiling mind, but not _there_. The passageway should never have appeared to her, especially when he had so tightly bound her magic.

He was far from ready.

_The tether is too strong._

Gritting his teeth, he lifted her out of his lap and laid her upon the silks of the canopy bed. 

Long strands of hair slid from his frigid hands before he brushed the few gone astray away from her face, so serene in unconsciousness. Never had his heart beat so madly before he stepped foot inside her head. Never had he desired anyone so sickeningly _good_. 

Eyes greedy as they consumed the body beneath him, he desired another taste, another morsel of addiction. Dried blood ran the length of his tongue, washing her of both her crimes and his. When it came to the juncture of her thighs, the urge to give and take was uncontrollable. 

He worshiped her. 

He despised her. 

Licking his lips, he rolled onto his side and stared again at her face, taking pleasure in the quickened breaths and furrowed brows. Her unbending will, her witless beliefs, her succulent allure made him want to wrap his hands around that slender throat and squeeze until ash bled from his fingers. 

He found himself growing weary as the image vanished behind drooping eyelids. 

For the first time since his awakening, Viscardi shut his moonlit eyes and succumbed to sleep. 

**xii.**

Pain ebbed into sorrow, heartache blooming into silver hair and golden eyes. One moment her back was pressed against a bed of sin, the next pressed against familiar leather. She twisted in her seat, staring wide-eyed at her surroundings, at the man driving the convertible through a winding mountain path. 

A toothy grin flashed her way, his eyes glinting in the last rays of sunlight. “What's with that look? Did your ears pop again?”

Numbness embodied her. No amount of lashings had prepared her for the emotions that needled her throat, cutting off all air. Reality faded fast amidst the clouds, a fog of sweet dreams, a dream because it _couldn’t_ be anything else. 

She’d driven that dagger through his heart.

A dagger that left wounds impossible to heal, no matter how gifted the sorcerer. 

She’d seen the scars that marred Viscardi’s back. 

“Anyone home?” he chuckled, but anxiety swam in his eyes, worry edged his voice. 

She shook her head, kept shaking until she bristled on the spot, the sensation of something _wet_ climbing up her arm from her wrist. The wind that raced through the evergreens petrified the trail it left. When it came to her throat, she whimpered. 

Cecil slowed the car as they came upon a sharp turn, but his gaze refused to leave hers. “Klara? What’s wrong?” 

She trembled, curling into herself against leather, smelling so much of him. Summer rain, salt water, freshly cut grass–

Autumn leaves, crackling fire, the acidic smell of cold wine. 

She let loose a breathy gasp, her skin flushed pink at the feeling of a wicked tongue memorizing her body. 

Just as pleasure wound tight as a coil could, she glanced sideways at Cecil, and felt herself die all over again. 

No longer were his hands on the steering wheel, but wrapped around the hilt of the dagger protruding from his chest. He tugged, tears falling from his dying eyes, lips moving over and over to repeat one single phrase. 

_“Not your fault.”_

**xiii.**

She awoke in a cold sweat, her cheeks tight with dried tears, Cecil’s words carved into her soul. The ghost of his laughter tickled the senses and she kept her eyes closed in attempt to grasp a tight hold on his grinning face, of the dimples adding so much life, of the light dust of freckles beneath his startling eyes. She’d never known his natural hair color, but she was sure as day it was auburn. 

Suddenly aware of the arm possessively thrown across her naked abdomen, Klara opened her eyes and looked to her left, breath catching at the sight of Viscardi’s sharp features so relaxed. The even rise and fall of his chest terrified her. He was the complete opposite of her lover, with his inky hair and cutting edges, with eyes black and unknown as the night sky. Yet with them shut… 

Never had he appeared so human. 

Icy disgust coiled in her stomach, remembering their earlier encounter, of the flaying of her back, of his hands on her bloodied hips. 

Of his tongue between her legs. 

She shoved his arm aside and wrenched herself free from the tangle of sheets, and then promptly tugged them off the bed to wrap around her body. 

“First time sleeping in a year, and I’m so rudely awakened?” his voice was smooth, as if he’d come to sooner than he let on. She watched with narrowed eyes, holding the sheets up to her chin, as he rolled onto his side and let a devious smirk dance upon his face. 

The next request that came in a hiss was a desperate, grim cry for familiarity. “Bring me back to my cage.”

“As you wish.” 

**xiv.**

He began to deny her existence. 

Nearly a month had gone by since he’d ripped open her skin and stitched it together. After dreaming of the drive through the mountains, of the shine of silver hair, of the blood spurting from Cecil’s pale lips, she had demanded to be returned to the cage where she spent the majority of her days when Viscardi held audiences with his followers. He had easily complied. 

Yet something changed between them. 

No longer did he take her from the cage to enclose her in his arms. No longer did he press his lips to hers. No longer did his gaze devour her. 

Every day her dress changed, from lace to silk to chiffon to satin of all colors and lengths. She was fed by means of magic, scrumptious dishes appearing before her on exact intervals and disappearing within a half hour, rising an appetite from her even as she wanted to reject the food just to spite him. Only once did she ignore her growling stomach, and watched dumbfounded when he did not spare her one look of disapproval. 

Loneliness clawed the crevices of her still-beating heart. 

She found herself _wanting_ his attention, _desiring_ his touch, _coveting_ his entire being. 

It sickened her. It thrilled her. 

One day she found herself calling out to him as he stood to leave, to abandon her once again in darkness. His name tasted of honey on her tongue, of poison she wanted to drown in. He stilled, his cloak an inky stain in the firelight, and inclined his head to her. Still refusing to meet her wanton eyes. 

“Take me with you.” 

Silence stretched through the chilling air while she waited for his response on bated breath. 

And felt desolation manifest within when the fire extinguished, and she found herself alone once more. 

**xv.**

“I want to kill you.”

Her head shot up, dark circles from sleepless nights digging beneath her eyes, as she was startled by his even voice carrying to her gilded prison.

One of his followers, scrawny and sniveling and vile, had just scurried from the chamber with his assignment to gather intelligence on the dying Resistance. The day was growing old, and it was nearly time for Viscardi to leave her. 

“I wonder how kind Death would be to you,” he continued, dark eyes meeting hers for the first time in nearly four moons. “What I would give for that impudent heart of yours to give its last beat. For your body to finally grow cold. For the light to leave your eyes.”

Each word was spoken as composed as the last, but she caught how white his knuckles grew while his long fingers clenched the arms of the throne. She didn't make a sound, but he had her full attention.

“But I can't seem to find it in me,” he laughed, prying one hand from the clawed arm to run over his face. In the next moment, he was gliding over to her cage, and she sat unflinching under his smoldering gaze. “I'd sooner carve out my own blackened heart than take yours.”

Her own voice was hoarse with misuse, but no longer was it timid. “Do it then.”

A grim smile came over his face as the door swung open. “Shouldn't you do the honors? You _do_ have experience.”

She'd nearly forgotten how irritating he was, how he made her blood boil, how he made her body ache with perverted delight.

Klara stood, gripping onto the bars to steady herself with, having not exercised in so long. Dearly missing the normality of the life she had years ago, she yearned so terribly for a scalding shower, as cleansing spells could only go so far. 

Before she had the chance to stumble out, Viscardi clasped his hands over her wrists and pinned her against the back of the cage, the silver digging into her back in discomfort. 

“You _infuriate_ me,” he growled into the pale column of her throat. Her breathing quickened, coming out in short gasps as his teeth scraped her skin, reminiscent of fervent nights writhing underneath his bruising touch. “Paying no attention to your prying eyes has only driven me mad with desire.”

Her response came in a moan, fingers twitching, yearning to tangle them in his shock of black hair. “I'm glad I have the same effect on you…” 

Sharp pain shot her senses into shock, his teeth breaking skin to _mark_ her, _claim_ her, _possess_ her. Blood trickled down her neck, staining the immaculate white slip that had materialized in the early hours of the morning. He had entered the room with the same cold control that she had been forced to coexist with, but now he was unraveling at her feet. 

When he released one wrist to tug at her hair, further exposing her neck to him, she found that she didn’t mind being his plaything. For the time being.

Then she felt wetness bloom across her skin. 

As suddenly as he’d forced his way into the confines of her cage, he yanked himself out, turning his rigid back away. Her free hand inched up to the bite mark, confused to find a mix of blood and tears. 

Tears that were not her own. 

**xvi.**

He’d given her free roam over the palace, over the many rooms that were first locked to her prying eyes, save for the chamber housed deep underground, and that was one exception she did not mind. She would rather not relive the burning sensation of her skin peeling underneath the force of Viscardi’s fury. 

She saw very little of him now that he’d barred her from her own cage, from the throne room when he held audiences. He no longer enticed her to bed, the passion that had radiated from him when he’d sunk his teeth into her having frozen over. The company she yearned for months on end were swiftly replaced with the boundless stories hidden within crisps pages of the library she hadn’t known existed, or with lazy strolls through the gardens overflowing with bluebells, roses, azaleas, and countless others that each demanded her utmost attention.

At night, she slept in a suite that seemed suited just for her for its gauzy drapery covering the window that served as the perfect reading nook that happened to overlook the gardens and the vast forest past the high walls. She had yet to attempt an escape, for she wouldn’t know where to go and who to flee to. Her family was no doubt out there, yes, but no one had come for her. The palace was not exactly within reach, hidden to the rest of the world as its master ruled by means of marionette strings. 

Oftentimes she wondered why she never stole his enchanted dagger to end his tyranny, and always came to the conclusion that she simply _couldn’t_. As if it were an impossible feat. Perhaps his spell would take hold of her and drive the blade into her own heart, or perhaps she was still under his control. 

The idea nearly pushed her over the brink of madness. 

So shoving it aside, she busied herself by burying her nose in books and accepting life as it was. 

**xvii.**

The door loomed before her in iron mastery. 

Her mind a foggy haze, she put a hand to cool steel and listened to the swelling of heavy silence. 

She was not allowed down here, where she could still feel the echoes of her cries hum beneath her feet. The stone floor, once sullied with blood of the unknown, was now scrubbed clean and immaculate. The torches protruding from the walls were lit with dancing fire, the occasional crackle absorbed by the quiet of what lived on the other side of the door. 

Yet she’d been through it, and not a soul had been awaiting her arrival. 

She did not recall descending again down the stairs into the place that had viciously punished her, that had stripped away her dignity and thrust her against the wall with such cruel calculation. The question as to why Viscardi had reacted so particularly about her wandering into an empty chamber bewildered her. 

The question as to how she found herself here again frightened her to no end. 

Taking three steps away from the sealed door, she turned to hurry up the spiraling escape, only to stop dead in her tracks when the faint sound of scratching resonated behind her. The same sound that she thought she’d heard when disobeying the sorcerer who held her heart in his cold hands. 

_“Klara…”_

The blood in her veins froze over at her name, spoken so quietly but so full of _life_ that she yearned for a moment to keep sanity in check. Perhaps she was dreaming once again, full of hope and misery and a longing for what could have been. 

That voice, so graveled in suffering and isolation, belonged to one man. 

_Cecil_.

**xviii.**

His name was on her lips, and in the next moment, she was wrapped in cotton, beams of sunlight splaying across her blinking face. A layer of sweat stuck to her skin as she came to amidst a muddle of thoughts, of silver hair and dimpled smiles, of shackles scraping against an unforgiving prison. 

With a start, a spew of curses filled the spacious suite as she flew from the bed and yanked open the curtains, glaring into the morning. Another dream, another false hope. A year had gone by since she’d thrust the cursed dagger into Cecil’s chest, since she had sentenced herself to Viscardi’s clawed clutches, his cruel smiles, his wicked lips, his lost eyes, his mystifying tears. 

_But what if it wasn’t a dream?_

A knock stirred her from the recesses of her mind. 

She glanced into the mirror at the state of her undress as the door opened not three seconds after the single knock.

Viscardi’s eyes raked over her breezy nightgown, a simple slip of sheer pink fabric that barely ended mid-thigh, leaving very little to the imagination. As always when under his scrutinization, she felt both a chill and unbearable heat come over her along with a flood of conflicting emotions. She wanted to scream at him for entering the room so soon, for not having the decency to avert his molten gaze. She wanted to fall back in bed and beckon him with a sultry look of her own. 

She opted for ducking behind the bedpost. 

His amused chuckle sent tingles down her body, pooling at her core, prompting her to press her thighs together as shame flooded her cheeks. “It isn’t anything I haven’t seen before, love.” 

Peeking at him, she examined his face, the most lively she’d seen it ever since their encounter in the cage. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, meaning for it to come across as a hiss, though genuine curiosity got the better of her. 

Nodding down at the platter as he laid it down on the nightstand, Viscardi said, “I assumed you wanted breakfast.” 

Stepping out of her place behind the post and cautiously making her way to his side, she pulled the lid from the platter and immediately let loose a moan of delight. A plate of bacon, cut strawberries, and French toast sprinkled with powdered sugar and covered in maple syrup lay in wait for her, overcoming her senses with the desire to indulge.

“They’re… my favorites. How did you know?” 

The meals she’d received within the cage had been entirely random, but she’d eaten each one to maintain her strength and health, no matter if she’d hated the taste. Her appetite had dwindled down to nearly nothing since her imprisonment, so even if one of her favorite dishes had appeared before her, she never showed any favor to it. 

Viscardi’s answering smile gave nothing away, no cracks to be found in one of the many masks he wore. “Intuition.” 

**xix.**

Her confusion having briefly been set aside in lieu of a mouth-watering breakfast in bed, now that Viscardi had left with his mask of niceties in tow, Klara had time to consider the possibilities of _why_ he had acted in such a manner.

There was no doubt he was hiding something, or more specifically, someone. 

The dungeon with its lone cell came to mind, the eerie resonance of scratching, of Cecil’s croaking voice. Viscardi had reacted too violently to her venturing down there, and the only sound reason would be that the sorcerer she had once believed she had stabbed was still somehow alive. 

She’d run before his body hit the ground. 

The next time she’d seen the dagger was in Viscardi’s nimble hands, twirling and glinting and _mocking_. 

She set out to become his shadow.

After slipping out of her quarters, she began to search. Logic lead her to the throne room, where he used to wake her soon after the sun rose. Though he was silent in his entrance, she would wake at the sound of the door creaking open, alerting her to his stifling presence. Yet when she pushed open the double doors, she found the great hall empty. 

Bothering her bottom lip, she headed to his chambers, where she found a bed that didn’t appear slept in and an empty desk. The palace was vast with its vestibules, dining hall, kitchens, banquet hall, ballroom, council chambers, guest suites, and even a chapel that had little use save for her recent visits. In fact, many had little use given the fact that Viscardi wasn’t keen on having company. His devoted worshipers were never allowed to stay too long on the premises, and she found herself wondering what he did with his time. 

She found him in the library. 

He was writing as furiously as he would after using her body, still in the ancient runes she’d began to study know that she’d been given free roam, though she could only pick up a few select words. 

_curse_ _man_

Viscardi rolled up the scroll, and with a flick of his wrist, the several books surrounding him slammed shut. “Did you find breakfast satisfactory?” 

Her eyes narrowed at his actions before she pulled up a chair and sat down gingerly. “It was nice. Why did you do it?” 

“I’ve decided that I want your stay here to be a pleasant one.” 

Reaching for one of the books, she sent a glare at him once they flew back into their respective places on the shelves, indefinitely out of reach without a ladder. “Pleasant? Do you honestly think whipping me, raping me, and then ignoring me for months is pleasant? You need to pick up a dictionary, _love_.”

His lips twitched into a wry smile, his eyes growing cold as they surveyed her stiff form. “I let you free from your cage and haven’t touched you in some time now.”

“Oh, and you want me to thank you for it? Let me go, Viscardi. You’re not a people person and neither am I.” She felt herself growing warmer by the second, her blood boiling under his piercing stare. She tried to remain calm by him, to gain the answers she searched for. Swallowing her anger, she attempted an even tone as she spoke, “What are you keeping in that cell, anyway? You wouldn’t act so viciously and then like nothing happened at all if you weren’t hiding anything.” 

It was subtle, but the way the stars in his eyes blinked out one by one and the crescent in his right eye dimmed ever so slightly gave his secret away. She watched as he tucked the scroll within the folds of his cloak and stood from the chair, appearing as graceful as ever, though she knew how unhinged he was behind the facade. 

“You will never again search for that dreadful place, Klara. If you do, there will be severe consequences that surpass the last.” 

Before she managed a rebuttal, he vanished on the spot. 

**xx.**

Her presence was dreadfully pleasant. 

She was persistent in hovering around him as of late, trying to pry every little secret from his unwavering grasp, smothering him with thoughts of pinning her against the wall and needling out the little dignity that still remained within that lithe body. 

When she left him alone to his research, he knew she was performing her own study, pulling books in his original tongue from the dustier shelves, tracing her hand along the wall where the entrance to that cell remained unseen to her eyes. He’d had to fortify the wards by means of more complicated magic that would not open again so easily for her. 

Still, she was ever the stubborn one, and he was ever the silent one. 

_Let her wonder._

**xxi.**

The first inkling of magic trickled into her sleep, beckoning her from bed, enticing her into slipping into the corridor and down the staircase. She moved as a ghost, gliding across marble floors with a train of cobwebbed silver dragging in her wake. 

Specks of embers flitted through the air, dancing with writhing shadows as the stone walls shifted to grant passage upon her, guiding her down to the depths. 

And she followed, without hesitation, eyes glazed over in an eerie trance. 

She could not feel the trepidation thrum across her bones while each torch she passed lit with blue flames, could not process the fear close around her throat, turn her lips blue or her skin red with welts. It pinched at her, drawing blood, clawing and wanting so desperately to halt her in her bewitchment. 

Iron stood before her again, yet this time she did not take flight, did not hide under Viscardi’s ragged wings. 

Rather, incantations fell from open lips, in the language she had yet to come close to understanding. 

_Puppet._

It cracked open like the violent whip unleashed on her flesh, jolting her into consciousness. 

She felt what fear had done to her, leaving deep gashes along her arms and legs and neck and _everywhere_. 

And though she longed to turn around, she stepped into the cell, enthralled by what lie within. 

Silver hair spilled across the floor, a shining pool of moonlight. Manacles clasped around limp wrists and ankles, chains sat heavy against a frosted floor, a black cloak fitted around the body lying on its side. 

His eyes fluttered open, and golden warmth flooded the small space.

**xxii.**

“Seems my spell finally reached you,” he spoke, his soft voice a chime of musical notes, caressing her ears and pinching heat into her cheeks, redness into her lips. He sat up, back to the wall as she lingered in the doorway of the cell.

She opened her mouth, flexed and clenched her hands, folding her dress into bunches at the sides, but couldn’t find any sound in her.

A sad smile flitted across his face as Cecil pat the floor beside him. “Come. It isn’t as cold as it looks.” 

Obeying, she pushed herself forward, stumbling slightly before settling down close enough to feel the comforting warmth radiating off him. She couldn’t help but shuffle in closer, pressing against the black fabric of his cloak. Never had she seen him in the color before, knowing he preferred blue jeans and a fitted tee that was anything but dark, but she supposed Viscardi hadn’t given him a vast selection in imprisonment unlike her. 

“You need to leave this place.”

Her gaze shot up to his in shock, but his eyes were trained on the wall as he continued to speak, “Not _here_ here. I need these precious few moments as much as you do, but I do mean this wretched castle.”

“Wait,” she croaked, at last finding her voice. “Please—Just… Just give me a second to take this in. To take _you_ in. How? How are you here? Alive?” 

She watched his throat move, swallowing nerves and words that she might not like to hear, though she wanted it all. His eyes fluttered shut, likely envisioning the night the tip of the blade entered his heart, breaking his trust in her. “It wasn’t cursed. The dagger. Viscardi would never hand the real one over to someone he had only met in dreams.” 

Shame splashed over her as she hid her face in his shoulder, blocking out dreams she had never shared with the smell of him. No more summer rain, no more salt water, no more cut grass in a place smothered by darkness. Instead, he was more night than ever. 

Only a drop of sunshine amidst the gore of war. 

“It was not your fault, Klara. He brainwashed you, turned you against me. I should have known. I’ve always been a threat to his existence. After you ran, I was… I was in shock and he took the chance to lock me away.” 

Tears rolled freely down her face. A year they both had been here and she had not once taken the initiative to _hope_. 

Shackles rattled as Cecil combed his fingers through her hair, tilting her head up to kiss away every tear she shed, whispering his love against her skin.

When her sobs ceased, and her sniffling came to a minimum, he again spoke urgently. “You need to find a way out of this place, love. A day will come when he will snap, when he’ll grow tired keeping a pet at his side, and I don’t want that day to come. So you need to leave while you still have a chance, and you won’t be able to take me with you. I’m trapped here.” Raising the manacles into view, he said, “The black magic that keeps these locked is something unbreakable. I assume only black magic can undo it, and that’s something I don’t have—”

“I’m not leaving you,” she cut him short, exasperation in her every breath. “You’re insane if you think I am.” 

Cecil looked away while shaking his head. “I can’t follow you. I won’t. The only reason he targeted you was because of me.” 

She took one of his hands and squeezed tightly, his hand scorching in hers. “You’re getting out. And then we’ll kill him together.” 

His smoldering gaze found hers again, hunger laden in chips of amber. It swelled inside her, a feeling she’d grown so accustomed to in the past year, day and night frozen and cracking under Viscardi’s watch, flushed and gasping beneath his hard body. Now she wondered how much Cecil knew, and she wondered why her proposal felt like another betrayal. 

After a rigid beat, he nodded. 

**xxiii.**

He’d known she would eventually find him, that the coward would lure her down with magic unable to be bound. The man always had a silver-tongue, and women often found themselves charmed to the point of foolishness. 

His pet was so easily manipulated.

Viscardi threw down his drink, watching a month’s worth of obsolete research soak in the violent shade of deep red. He stood suddenly, sweeping everything off the writing desk and knocking the chair backwards, splitting wood centuries old. He did not once wince while picking the shattered remains of the crystal goblet from his bleeding forearm, instead relishing the ragged pain that shot his nerves into euphoria. 

Turning, he gazed at his reflection in the cheval mirror, noting his mussed hair and glistening eyes. Blood smudged over his cheeks as he tried wiping the tears away, feeling his skin grow incredibly feverish, feeling drowsiness weigh vehemence down. 

His fingers clutched the confining cloak before tearing it down the middle, _needing_ biting air to kiss his skin. 

He was instantly aware of the scarred tissue covering the length of his back, jagged cruelty that marred his being, serving as an eternal reminder of what he was. He could barely remember the council’s piercing, holier-than-thou stares, but he had not forgotten the pristine dagger against him, had not forgotten every drop that bled out. 

Each drop was a price to be paid, one that he had been sure to collect with due judgement. 

And now _she_ sought the blade to rid herself of him. 

“Only if you are willing to pay the price,” he hissed, glaring into his own star-speckled irises. 

**xxiv.**

The day had dissolved into dusk when she finally set out of her room in search of her captor. She’d stayed at Cecil’s side within his cell until the sun rose and he urged her to return as to not alert Viscardi of her disappearance. Though she longed to stay forever by his side, she pressed a kiss to his fevered lips before sweeping back up into the heart of the palace, promptly collapsing into a deep slumber as soon as the bed enveloped her in its sheets. 

Silence embodied the corridors with only a few tongues of fire to light the way, guiding her to the dining hall that housed a single long table and the sorcerer who sat at its head. 

“How nice of you to grace me with your presence, Klara.”

She stiffened at the use of her name, not accustomed to hearing it in his sibilant voice. His eyes gleamed in the firelight floating overhead, casting shadows over his face. In his hand was a glittering blade, its handle plain in appearance, but she knew what power it held. 

“Do sit,” he said, nodding to the chair opposite him, and she complied without hesitation, glad to have so much space between their bodies. Yet just as the thought crossed her mind, yards of dark wood between them shrunk to only a meter. His magic tingled down her spine, but she pressed her lips in a thin line and glared ahead at him. “I assume this is why you’ve come?” 

He delicately placed the dagger down between them, smiling sweetly. 

Breaking their eye contact, she eyed the cursed object with speculation, not daring to pull her hands from her lap and reach out. The invitation was tempting, though she couldn’t ignore the dread that pooled like poison in the pit of her stomach. 

Still, she nodded and again dared to look into his eyes, so barren of emotion despite the easy smile. “There’s a catch, isn’t there?”

“Not so foolish, then,” he hummed in approval. “Yes, but it is a simple catch. I only ask that you first take it down to your dear Cecil’s cage, and when you arrive, you give him one question.”

Klara waited on bated breath, knowing there was a trick. There was never _not_ a trick when it involved Viscardi. He was a thing of games, a lover of deceit and strategy. She would not be another fly caught in his web. 

_But what other choice does she have?_

“When you go,” he continued, shifting the dagger closer, its deadly point angled directly to her chest. “Ask him where he was the night you ventured down into those bloodied depths alone, when I gripped your pretty hair and threw you into that cell, when you begged for anyone to save you from evil incarnate, when I split open your flesh and fucked you into submission. Only then may you carve out my blackened heart.” 

Viscardi clicked his tongue and leaned forward, wiping away her tears with one gloved finger. 

Short on breath, she could only watch as he cradled her cheek in his hand and said, “In fact, let me help you.” 

_Time to sleep._

**xxv.**

She woke in Cecil’s arms.

Blinking at near total-darkness, she shifted her body, peering at his face through the gloom, at his eyes frozen and fixed over her shoulder.

“Where is he?” she asked, following his line of sight to the dagger lying in wait for their use in the corner. It struck her as odd for Viscardi to leave it so soon, so willingly, so eager to hand over his life. Perhaps he’d fled the palace as soon as he’d dumped her into the cell, leaving Cecil bound by shackles he could never hope to be free of. 

And yet he had not been present for her flagellation. 

“Cecil?” she spoke quietly, attention catching on the leather gloves discarded to the side, the same that had stroked her cheek and charmed her into slumber. “Where _were_ you?” 

Klara felt him grow taut as a bowstring beneath her, watched his jaw clench and amber eyes finally shift to her troubled gaze. She met them with total apprehension, and when he did not ask her to elaborate, when he carefully lifted her from his lap and began to undo the clasps of his cloak, she felt her will begin to crumble. 

Black velvet puddled along chains as Cecil popped each button from his shirt, exposing skin she’d never seen before. Never once had he stripped in her presence, claiming bashfulness with a wink, and reinstating that she was traditional and waiting for the bridal bed. She had passed it off as self-consciousness and a strange quirk they would hurdle one day, but only now as he turned his back to her and swept his silver hair to the side, and she took in the raised ridges of his flesh, jagged lumps of tissue that could never be healed, did she understand. 

Tears swathed his voice when he whispered, “I’ve been with you all along.”

**xxvi.**

Chains rattled as Cecil shrugged the shirt over his scars, not bothering to button it as he turned back to her, eyes searching hers, unearthing the fear inside. So many questions lay heavy on her tongue, and yet she remained mute under his revelation, both waiting for an explanation and desperately wishing it were a dream. 

“I was a fool in my younger years,” he started, shutting his sunlight eyes and pulling his hair loose of the tie keeping it bound. Silver strands fell into his broken face before he tugged it back, nails scraping scalp. “Born of a disgraced witch, I fought tooth and nail to achieve the most, to prove my worth to those who thought of me as the dirt beneath their feet. I dabbled in all kinds of magic and wanted to create a name for myself. And by God, I did. It just wasn’t the name I wanted.” 

She inched forward, hesitating a moment before placing her hand on his shoulder, feeling him go rigid under the timid touch. He took a breath and continued his tale, “I sought to rid myself and others of dark desires, to toss out the evil within and make society better. Perhaps then, mortals would no longer live in fear of us, and would instead view us as a benevolent kind. As you can see, my experiments went horribly wrong. The elders were outraged and the punishment was permanent. Viscardi, the name my other half took, gave them his own punishment in return. _Death_.” 

Sorrow beat against her chest, tears swimming in her vision as she pulled him into a constricting embrace. Trembling fingers brushed his clothed back, and Klara had the overwhelming urge to press her lips to every scar, every pained memory. 

“If you want him gone,” Cecil whispered, every moment that ticked by letting his skin grow colder beneath her heat. “You will have to kill me.” 

His neck grew wet with her tears, her response choked, “We’ll find a–another way. I just got you back...”

She felt fingers in her hair, no shackles clattering against the night, when Viscardi said, “There is no other way.” 

**xxvii.**

He stood in one fluid motion, dumping Klara from his arms and pinning the cloak over his shoulders before sheathing the dagger at his waist. “Cecil is too much of a coward to kill himself, and I refuse to do so. Therefore, love, you’re the only option. If you so desperately want me gone, then you’ll have to kill your precious betrothed.” 

As she shakily got to her feet, she clutched her hands into fists, nails digging bloody crescents into her palm. Viscardi strode to her side, pulled her close, pressing his lips to her ear, and hissed, “And now that the little secret is out, I’ve no qualms about our relationship anymore. Let me just state the facts now since we’re on the topic. You won’t hurt me. You won’t think of it. If Cecil were gone, you would have no one. If I were gone, you would have nothing.” 

His words rung true within her, and as he spoke, their surroundings began to take different shape, the walls bleeding into the familiar interior of his bedchambers. Magic needled her skin, but she suppressed a shudder and stared into Viscardi’s eyes.

The night to Cecil’s day. 

The knowledge eased the guilt of _wanting_ both, _needing_ both parts of one man to keep her company. 

His lips quirked up into a crooked, knowing smirk as he brushed his knuckles against her cheeks, watching them heat under his cool touch. “Little bird, won’t you say something? I rather your incessant chirping over silence.” 

“I– I don’t know what to say…” she trailed off, blinking back the tears forever in her eyes. Then after a few tense moments of thought, she licked her lips, noting how he followed the movement with his heavy gaze, and said, “But maybe I have a few questions.” 

Viscardi nodded, moving over to his writing desk and pulling out the chair to take a seat. “Ask away.” 

“How old are you?”

“My, my. Did Cecil never tell you?” he chuckled, the sound rich and mocking. “What a secretive boy. Well, you already know that I _slumbered_ for three centuries. I needed to gather much power in order to snuff out Cecil’s magic, and it’s worked well enough so far. Just add roughly another hundred years on top of that. In a way, I’m much younger than your silver-tongued sweetheart.” Though mostly taunting, she could hear the edge of bitterness in his words, the contempt in his icy voice. She wondered how it felt to hate oneself, to be _jealous_ of one’s own goodness. 

That brought forth another question. “If Cecil is the manifestation of all the good, then why do you call him a coward?” 

“He’s a coward for not taking his life when he had the chance,” he answered, patting the leather sheath on his belt. “One life in exchange for millions. Ah, but perhaps there was never a noble bone in his body.”

Klara leaned against the nearest bedpost, head beginning to ache, body starting to tremble under his hypnotic stare.

“Would you like to lie down?”

The invitation enthralled her, as if the magic humming in the air was an aphrodisiac. Ever since she had met Cecil, she’d been drawn in by his magic, and when her dreams had taken a dark visitor, she’d only grown more attached to the spark she felt around him. It had always stimulated a desire within her, but now, she had to clear her head.

She needed to turn the tide in her favor. 

“I want to make a deal.” 

**xxviii.**

Hours bled into days, and Viscardi made good on his part of the deal she offered. She kissed him, embraced him, worshiped him, and in exchange, no longer was Cecil confined beneath the castle. 

He walked the corridors, surveyed their various tapestries with distaste, but a smile still lingered on his lips as she kept by his side. He never asked how he’d been given freedom, able to roam as she did, able to feel her curl into his side as he drifted into sleep. Perhaps the bruises left on her neck were answer enough. 

Viscardi was her addiction and Cecil was her solace. 

They were seated side by side in the library one evening, Klara deep inside a book when Cecil took her hand and thumbed over her barren ring finger. The band had been taken upon her arrival over a year ago, and she’d never asked for Viscardi to return it, having felt responsible for her love’s apparent death. Now she found herself wishing for it again, but knew he would refuse her plea. 

“I think it’s been postponed long enough, don’t you think?” she whispered and watched his thumb still. 

His sunburst eyes examined hers before he responded, laced with regret, “I still want you to leave this place. You know I won’t keep you here.” 

“Viscardi will.”

“He only uses you to get to me.”

His words struck a chord of fear within her, denial bubbling within her lungs. It wasn’t as if she was in love with the self-proclaimed sovereign. Not the same way she was in love with his counterpart. But she wanted to believe that Viscardi had some semblance of feeling for her, that he at least _lusted_ for her. 

For every time Cecil fell into a slumber, Viscardi ravaged her to delirium. 

_All mine. Just as I promised you would be._

“So you’re saying no to a wedding?” she snapped, shutting the book and standing, her stature completely rigid. Cecil stayed seated behind her, crestfallen as the sun began to dip into night and the lamps began to light one by one. “Why did you even propose in the first place?”

“I thought I had him under control. I thought he was gone, forever missing, and I’d been granted a life with you. If I’d known he would return…” he stopped, as if not sure of what would have been done.

_Never a noble bone in his body._

Klara shook her head of his slithering voice. “What life do I have out there, Cecil?”

Cecil set aside his own book, marking it with its attached ribbon to read later, and again took her hand. She put up no fight, tired of struggle after struggle, as he led her from the library and into one of the alcoves that led to a narrow passageway. One she’d assumed would be meant for servants if there had ever been any. There were so many questions buzzing within her, but she’d hardly the power to ask anymore. Viscardi never allowed her time, and Cecil had no recollection of the grand palace, despite how quickly he’d learned its layout. 

They shuffled out into the gardens, and he whisked her past the flowers that had numbed her loneliness, past the glittering pool of water she’d wasted hours staring into. He led her to the wall, one she had once attempted to climb, but her hands had been magicked to slip off the many vines that crawled over it. 

“What life do you have out there?” he murmured, running his own hand along one thick vine, then wretched it aside, ripping many away along with it to expose the surface of stone. Stone that seemed blurred rather than smooth. Cecil gestured for her to touch, and when she did, she felt herself being tipped and tumbled through to the other side. 

“A better one than you have here.” 

**xxix.**

Her breath released in clouds against the chilling air, the earth frozen beneath her as she padded over rotting leaves, fallen branches, and freshly fallen snow. The elements had not affected the palace, protected by wards and kept warm by charms and Cecil’s touch. Viscardi had been cold, but always grew feverish when he dined on her flesh. 

Now the trees loomed overhead, much like they had after she’d run from Cecil many moons ago, with Viscardi hot on her heels. She dared a glance over her shoulder and wondered if he would come for her again. The forest was bewitched, designed to throw travelers off their trails and hot-headed sorcerers into insanity. Feeling as if she’d roamed and only gone in circles for hours with only the waning moon as her company, she came to a stop and leaned against the nearest tree. 

Cecil hadn’t given her proper warning, hadn’t given her a kit to set up camp, hadn’t taught her how to survive the wilderness. 

All that work done only for her to die out here alone. 

She brought her numbing fingertips up to her face, staring at the ragged nails, the nails that had desperately clawed against the wall as she begged for Cecil to let her back in. Tears were still frozen on her face. 

Yet by glaring at her the chipped nails, realization dawned on her. 

A string of spells left her chattering teeth. 

Fire blazed before her. 

A squeal of excitement echoed through the night, and she made her own campfire, set a blanket of charms over her shoulders to keep cozy, and as she settled within the roots of the tree, she allowed herself a moment of peace. 

The sharp scent of blood pulled her into consciousness. 

Her eyes fluttered open, peering into darkness, over the dying embers of her fire and into the shadows beyond. It took a languid form, sprawled against the fallen tree opposite her, the only light dispersed within its black eyes. 

She felt numb, as if her charms had worn off and ice had settled along her bones. 

“I thought we had a deal, love.” 

Voice heavy with spite, Viscardi shifted, moving like silk as sparks flew from the makeshift pit, fire growing from the embers within. It cast ominous shadows over his face, so devoid of emotion, save for the pain deep within those captivating eyes.

Iron overwhelmed her senses, but his face was immaculate, fixed on her, focused solely on her paralyzed body as his steely gaze roamed downwards. Her attention followed suit, and panic swelled within her when she saw the crimson that bloomed from her chest, a wooden hilt jutting out just far enough to see the glint of the blade. 

Blood spurted from her lips as he lifted the spell of paralysis, thrusting her into sunbursts of agony. 

**xxx.**

Viscardi was on her in a fracture of a moment, ripping the dagger free of her rib cage, blood spurting against his face so twisted with sick delight. Her anguished cry tore through the night, disrupting the peace of shadows and silence, filling the sky with shuddered tears. 

His teeth tore into her breast and feasted on her pain, the chuckle in the back of his throat echoing in the underbrush like a beast’s feral growl. Just as it came to be too much, he brought her back from the brink with his fingers closing over her throat and lips moving over the gaping wound, incantations weaving her skin back together. 

She blinked the daze from her eyes, attempting to catch her breath, when he lifted the blade and hacked into her again.

Slash after slash, spell after spell, crimson pooling around them in a lake of heartache. 

“No one,” he panted over her cries, “breaks a deal with me. Not without consequence. You will pay, Cecil will pay, I will pay for your petty ideals of freedom. A lifetime of suffering is in store for you, _love_. And I will make certain that lifetime never ends.”

Again he pried the dagger from her spasming flesh, and dug it into the root beside her head as he glared into her pale face. While her vision blurred, threatening to pull her under, she felt the tears leave those starlit eyes, falling onto her like a summer rain. 

Salt water, freshly cut grass, smiles of pure sunshine. 

_“Cecil...”_ The name escaped her, her fingers inching up to rest on Viscardi’s face. She did not see the desolation clear every star from his eyes, did not see the resolve flatten them into emptiness. 

His shoulders shook with hollow laughter before he spoke, his voice clear of any emotion, “Cross that last statement. It seems as if your lifetime has come to a close.”

 _Time for the curtain to fall._

**xxxi.**

Her back shattered against the ribs of the cage, knocking the silver contraption from its hinges and rolling off the raised dais. Pushing herself up onto her elbows, Klara watched with bleary eyes as Viscardi brandished the cursed blade, flamed reflections of the many lives it had stolen glinting within. 

“It so pains me to do this,” he whispered into the cavernous hall, yet his words were clear as day, cruel as the feline smile on his lips. “You would have been a lovely queen. As it stands now, you have proven to be a perfect waste of my time.” 

“So Cecil wasn’t wrong,” she rasped, throat raw from screaming. “You really don’t feel anything for me.” 

Viscardi’s nostrils flared, his jaw clenched, a terrible heat filling his eyes with hatred, scorching her underneath his gaze. “Cecil has _always_ been wrong. He is a fantasy. A fool with witless ideals floating around an empty head, of marriage and children and embracing whatever life threw his way. _I_ wanted greater things. I didn’t want something life handed me on a cold platter. That was the way of the poor man, the man too weak to create his own path. I have worked so hard, gotten too far for something like _you_ to ruin it. To ruin me.” 

He was inches from her now, crouching down and taking her chin in his unforgiving grip. “I love you.” 

Tears dropped freely down his face, and tears of her own fell with them, in melancholy synchronization. 

“And that is why I can’t have you.” 

Fingers slipping from her face, his left hand rose, and she felt the tip of the blade break the skin over her heart. Beads of blood joined in her already ravaged, bloodied blouse, and she found herself no longer afraid of pain, of agony shredding her into slivers of ribbons. Her head tilted back, lips parting as she prayed for her heart to burst. 

And then it did. 

Not by means of the dagger, but by sunlight and moonlight blending behind her eyes, of easy laughter and hostile glares. Of warm hands and ragged breathing. Of apologetic smiles and tragic tears. Of midsummer drives and silver cages. 

“I love you too,” she said at last. 

The dagger clattered to the floor. 

Black bled into silver, and silver to black.

Both Viscardi and Cecil stared back at her, mismatched eyes wide with shock, before he took her into his arms and kissed her, despised her, worshipped her,

_loved her._


End file.
